


Put It On Me

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: Line of Duty (TV 2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Comfort Sex, Crying, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Men Crying, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 03:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: Dot was supposed to protect the witness so she could testify against her violent ex. He'd done everything right, put the proper protection in place, plods on the doorstep 24/7, but still that bastard found a way to get to her. And it's all his fault.
Relationships: Steve Arnott/Matthew "Dot" Cottan
Kudos: 4





	Put It On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Potential triggers for discussion of domestic violence and reference to self-harm. This depiction of Dot was inspired by Craig Parkinson's amazing performance in 2014 BBC series "Prey".

Hung high and dry where no one can see/ If there's no one to blame, blame it on me/ Storm in the sky, fire in the street/ If there's nothing but pain, put it on me (Matt Maeson "Put It On Me")

They had a pint together after work, just round the corner from the office, laughing with Kate and the guv. It was good. It was great. Dot drove him home and kissed him in the car, cupping Steve's face in one hand and telling him he loved him. It always made a little flare of happiness deep inside Steve's chest whenever Matthew said that. It put heat into his cheeks and...other places. He went up in the lift, unlocked the door of his flat and changed into his running clothes. He was tying the laces of his trainers when the thought occurred to him that maybe he should have gone with Dot. The sensation of having let him down was so strong that it stopped him inside the doorway, and he'd already half-turned to go back in, but he shook it off. Dot was a big boy and a well-seasoned copper. He could handle himself. There wasn't any need for Steve to babysit him. If he turned up now, came over all concerned, Dot would see it as interfering and probably have a go at him. Yeah. Best leave things as they were.

He drew a bath when he got back from his run, called Dot's mobile and left a message: "If you need anything, you know where to find me. I'm not checking up on you. I just..." It still wasn't easy for him to say the words. "I love you, you great git. I just...I love you."

****

The house was dark when he arrived, not a light showing anywhere. He showed his ID to the bobby at the door, asked if it was okay that he went inside. He didn't really need to ask permission but being with Steve had taught him a thing or two about politeness and respect, two virtues he'd always figured he had plenty of on his own. "Course, sir."

"Has there been anyone here?" Dot asked. "Besides you lot, I mean."

"No, sir. Not a dicky-bird."

"All right." Dot patted his shoulder. "You're doing a good job, eh? Keep it up." He pushed open the front door and stepped into the foyer. There was absolute silence, which was odd, since she tended to keep the television on, just to hear another voice about the place. He called her name as he went in, wincing at the overpowering smell of copper in the air, overlaid with a dense, meaty smell like someone had left something out of the fridge too long. "Is that you, Eileen? Sorry to be so late. Figured I'd come check--" 

At first glance he thought it was a pile of discarded clothing, dropped on the kitchen floor in haste. The dim light from the cooker didn't offer much illumination, and it was hard to see in that poky, small space, with darkness outside the windows and night already well established. Instinct, and the habit of long practice made him slow his steps, placing his big feet carefully, watching where he was stepping even though he couldn't see. He nudged the bundle with his toe at the same moment he noticed the dark pool that had spread out from it, had to have been there a while now, was mostly dried, solidified into a mass of protein...yes, that's what it was, protein. He remembered that much from the chemistry courses he'd taken at uni. It didn't dry, not blood, not really...the liquid part evaporated and--

Sweet _Christ_. Why was he thinking about this now? Why was he thinking about this at all? He laid two fingers at the side of her neck just to be sure but he didn't need the lack of a pulse to tell him anything. Yeah, she was dead. _Fuck._

He got to his feet, spun round and headed for the front door, rage propelling his long body down the narrow corridor that joined the kitchen and the foyer. He burst out onto the pavement and grabbed the nearest plod by the shoulders. "Where were you?"

The constable, young fella no more than twenty, gaped at him like Dot had landed from outer space. "Sir?"

"Where the fuck were you?" he asked. "I told you to watch if anybody was about. You weren't supposed to let anyone in that fucking house."

"Is she all right?"

"No! She is not all _fucking_ right. She is dead." The last word came out like a sob. "She's dead. You bastard."

"Sir, I swear to you--"

But Dot had already turned away, was dialling 999 and trying not to be sick. _You're a copper,_ he told himself, _you're supposed to handle things so bloody handle this._

He placed a call to CID to come and process the scene. Two detectives showed up, a DI and a sergeant, but he didn't know them. "In the kitchen," he said. The sergeant, a woman in her thirties, asked why he was there. "I'm AC-12," he replied, flashed the badge just in case. "She was a witness...yeah, doesn't matter now. I've called the ambulance to remove the body but obviously they'll wait until you're finished with the scene."

"Yeah, we know how it works, mate." This from the DI, a man about Dot's own age. "Don't need to spell it out." He flipped his hand in Dot's direction, not even looking at him. "You can go."

The rage churned and roared inside of him. He wondered what'd get if he bashed this poncy cunt in the mouth. No, wasn't worth it. "Yeah, you can do one and all." He slung his coat over his shoulder and forced himself to walk away.

He knew this city like the back of his hand, or thought he did. He walked for what felt like hours, but he couldn't be entirely sure and his watch had stopped, ages ago. He had a coat when he left the house but he'd lost it, and loosening this tie didn't help the massive cricket ball sitting on top of his larynx. Had he been crying? Or was it raining? His face was wet. He was walking around like a lunatic, mouth open, staggering along on legs so tired they didn't seem able to hold him. Where was he? There was a pub up ahead, some grotty after-hours place that wasn't even supposed to be open past eleven but it didn't matter, not now. Nothing mattered now. And then he was pushing open the door and walking in, and it was dark and the lights were red, the walls were painted red, but the red was soothing. He sat at the bar, head in his hands, and a tired-looking woman came and sat beside him. "You don't look too good, mate."

He turned to gaze at her. "I'm not."

The bartender appeared and leaned towards him. "What can I get you?"

"Vodka. Double." He dropped a handful of bills on the bar. "Keep 'em coming till I tell you otherwise."

The man peered at him. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Vodka," Dot said, biting the word off between teeth that chattered, despite the night's smothering heat. "Until I say otherwise." He canted a look at the woman. "What are you having, love?"

"I'll have the same," she replied.

The bartender went away, returned with a bottle of Stoli, placing it on the bar along with two shot glasses. "There you go, guv'nor," he sneered, "drink yourself stupid."

He talked to the woman for a long time, but about what, he didn't know. Maybe he was spilling all of AC-12's deepest secrets. He didn't really care. At some point he'd have to go back, tell Hastings what had happened, let them all know how he'd fucked up and what was the result, but not now. Not yet.

The night crawled past him, a wounded beast lying where it had dragged itself to die. The clock above the bar said it was past four, and the bartender said he had to go; they were closing. The woman had long since disappeared, along with the bottle of Stoli.

He was so drunk he could barely stand but he somehow managed to stagger outside, stand wavering on the pavement, looking about him. A black taxicab swam past him and he raised an arm, called out, but the driver ignored him. He managed to fumble his mobile out of his hip pocket, tap in the number. It rang at least a dozen times and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice answered. "Dot? Is that you, love?" Steve. It was _Steve._ Suddenly he was bawling like a baby, sobbing down the phone, saying God knows what.

"Don't go anywhere, sweetheart, okay? I'm coming to get you. All right? Matthew? I'm coming to get you. Don't move."

The call disconnected, and he turned, rammed his fist into the wall of the pub so hard he heard the bones crack. The pain, ragged and vicious, seared the nerves in his arm, burst in the centre of his chest, a living agony. He slid down until he was sitting on the pavement, cradling his broken knuckles against his chest. He was a shit copper, useless at his job. The gaffer was going to fire him, and there'd be charges laid, because he'd let a vulnerable suspect get killed by her violent ex-husband. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault. His old man had been right: he was a fuck-up, a mistake, a useless bloody article that should have been killed at birth --

"Hey." Steve Arnott, wearing a hoodie and pajama trousers, his feet shoved into a pair of unlaced trainers and his face full of love, was crouched in front of him. "Matthew, it's all right. I'm going to take you home, okay? Going to get you home, sweetheart. Come on."

He had a vague impression of sitting in the passenger seat of Steve's car and watching things going by: lights, buildings, other vehicles. Steve pulled into the underground car park and helped Dot out and into the lift, held him up, walked him into the flat and shut the door behind him. The floor came up to meet him and he crumpled, the last of his energy giving out.

"Matthew, sweetheart..." Steve's face swam into focus in front of him. "I'm here, darling. You're quite all right."

"She's dead, Steve."

"I know. I've had the gaffer on the phone. Matthew, nobody blames you. It wasn't your fault, love. None of it was your fault." He turned Matthew's torn hand and looked at it. "Did you do this?"

"I was in a pub. I punched the wall outside. Is it broken?"

Steve palpated the injury gently. The pain was immediate, violent. "I don't think so. You've made a fair hash of your knuckles." He touched Dot's face. "Let's go to bed, my love. Come on."

They went into the bedroom and Steve stripped him gently, pulling off his clothes and leaving them in a pile on the bedroom floor. He pulled Dot into the still-warm bed that he'd vacated, leaned over to switch off the lamp, and curled into his embrace. They held each other in the dark and the fear and rage that Dot had nursed all night flowed out of him, transformed into something else, something infinitely warmer and more gentle. He sought Steve's mouth in the dark and kissed him, and the kiss opened up, the heat of it burning into him, and Steve's hands were on him, touching him, loving him, as they wrapped around each other, skin sliding on skin.

"You're safe now," Steve whispered, right before the swelling tide of pleasure grew and opened its mouth for him, swallowing him whole. His balls drew up and the tingle in the base of his spine felt like a swarm of wild bees and he was _there_ , coming hard, gasping and swearing and writhing. He clung to Steve as his lover shouted his release, and drifted down to lie against him, their bodies warm and wet, bellies pressed together, sticky with their spent desire.

He slept, wrapped around Steve, holding him, while the night waned and dawn crept slowly over the city. He woke late, to find Steve's side of the bed empty, and a note propped up on the nightstand. _I LOVE YOU. REST TODAY. WILL SPEAK TO HASTINGS._

He hoped it would be all right. Hope was all he had now. Hope, and Steve Arnott.


End file.
